Thursday, April 20, 2006

Everything I'd been feeling over the course of the past few months finally came to a head this evening in the form of verbal sparring on the street.

Although a lot was said, the situation is far from over.

I don't feel I'm getting the emotional support I need to work through some of the issues I have, and if that means I need to find someone who is willing to lend me an ear from time to time, so be it because I can't continue on in this manner much longer.

A day doesn't go by where I don't think about killing myself. Really. I find myself looking for opportunities to swallow my medicinal arsenal without being interrupted. I think about taking a long drive towards Payson and at a high rate of speed veering off the road ala Thelma and Louise. I think about mixing a lethal combination of alcohol and head pills, taking a nice deep nap, and aspirating on my own vomit ala Jimi Hendrix. Why? Because I can't take much more of this shit.

Selfish?

Maybe.

Pussy?

Maybe.

In a house full of people I am alone, left to my own devices. On any given day, all I have to rely on are my thoughts, my whims. Is some of this my own doing? Probably. After all, I did choose to terminate most of all of my friendships in favor of a leaner, less intrusive, more sedentary lifestyle. But I'm not the "Let's get together and have a few drinks sort" that my wife is. I've been there and got the free beer koozy. I've moved on. Don't get me wrong, now and again I'll go with her more so I can spend some time with her than anything. However, I feel that to her I am nothing more than a safe ride home after a night of making an ass of herself. I don't much mind though. It's either that, or I get a call telling me she's wrapped herself around a telephone pole. You do the math.

This evening, when she tells me I need to think about what it is I want, I retort by requesting that she think hard about why she is still with me; why, if she thinks that she and the kids make me miserable, she chooses to keep me around. (There's more to it, but I'm cutting the fat out of the conversation.) I get the staple answer: "Because I love you." Gee, thanks. But if I'm that fucking bad, why stick around and make your life hell?

(((YAWN!)))

As much as I'd like to continue this, the truth is that I'm tired. It's nearing midnight and I need to get up in the morning and become house bitch/cabana boy before going to see Silent Hill ALONE!

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About Me

You know me. I am the cool, the nerd, the jock, the loner, the fatty, the anorexic, the "You're nice, but... let's just be friends," guy. I am the cute, the ugly, the attractive, the average, the intelligent, the stupid, and the sexy one who stands silent against an otherwise vacant wall in life. I am the serious sort, despite my rampant and often over-indulgent jocular side. I am the happy friend, quick witted, with all of the trappings of being unhappy. I am the one holding up progress in the suicide line. I am the one who unjustly possesses the golden ticket of life. I am the fearful one who guides you through your fears, but is too afraid to face my own. I am the born-again bastard with two fathers. I am the adult who never learned how to be a child, and the child who desperately searches for a modicum of adulthood. I am the poster boy for mental health, the cover model for G.Q. I am the centerfold for Playgirl and the homeless man you step over in the gutter. I am you. I am them. I am her. I am him. I am me. I am me. I am...